


Working Out

by Switchadelphia (PumpkinHeadJones)



Series: Switchie's One Word Prompts [3]
Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Alcohol, Anal, Angst, Drugs, Gratuitous use of the word "beefcake", Humor, M/M, NSFW, One Night Stand, Public Sex, Smut, one word prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 05:03:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8237042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PumpkinHeadJones/pseuds/Switchadelphia
Summary: The waitress is a solid seven or eight, that’s for sure. She’s got great tits and a pretty face, and she’s got strong looking bis and tris of her own. Mac is pretty sure she lifts. But Mr. Beefcake, now he’s an eleven.





	

I _work out_ , Mac tells the cute waitress who’s feeling up his glamour muscles. He’s honestly so fucked up right now that he can barely even feel her warm fingers sliding up and down his skin. It’s been a shit week, and Mac is determined not to remember any of it. So far, he’s got about a 64% success rate, but it’s not enough. Really, he’d just like to go back to Tuesday night and forget all of that bullshit.

 _Wow, you really are strong_.

Why can’t hangovers work like that, anyway? Why can’t people just choose which bits of their day they want to drink away or bury? People drink to forget, or so they say, but in Mac’s experience, the only part he ever forgets is how he wound up back in his own bed at the end of the night. He can never really seem to delete the right data.

 _How much can you bench press?_ the bartender cuts in, and holy shit is he hot. Prime-A-Beefcake right there. Mac is pretty sure he can feel the waitress’s fingers tighten around his bicep, like she’s trying to stop Mr. Beefcake over here from stealing her boy toy. Mac considers his options.

The waitress is a solid seven or eight, that’s for sure. She’s got great tits and a pretty face, and she’s got strong looking bis and tris of her own. Mac is pretty sure she lifts. But Mr. Beefcake, now _he’s_ an eleven. He’s got so much tone that Mac can make out his eight pack through his goddamn _cardigan_. Mac came out tonight looking for some strange of the female variety; he really needs a palette cleanser after all of the man-on-man action he’s been getting lately. But goddamn if he isn’t considering a friendly home-team match again tonight.

 _Oh, I can press, like, two hundred, easy,_ Mac lies, and he can feel the waitress’s fingernails cutting into his flesh. He shakes her off, and she walks off with a dismissive shrug. It doesn’t take long for her to find a beefcake sandwich to grind into, so Mac doesn’t feel too bad. It’s just as well, Mac thinks as he smiles coyly up at Mr. Beefcake through his eyelashes. He’s been crushing long island ice teas for hours now, so he’s pretty sure he has liquor dick and wouldn’t have been able to keep it up long enough to bang her, anyway. Mr. Beefcake reaches across the bar and wraps his large, sausage-like fingers around Mac’s bicep. Mac feels like his arm is being electrocuted.

 _Two hundred, huh?_ Mr. Beefcake says, squeezing Mac’s arm and then sliding his hand up, over, and down onto Mac’s pecs. _You are one tough little bear cub, aren’t you?_ Mac’s cock gives a feeble little twitch in his jeans. He might be too drunk to do the fucking tonight, but Mr. Beefcake’s got a snake the size of Dee’s forearm pitching a tent in the front of his little shorts right now, so that doesn’t seem to be a problem.

 _What about you?_ Mac says, leaning forward into Mr. Beefcake’s warm, calloused palm. He’s rubbing a thumb in circles around one of Mac’s pebbled little nipples, and Mac is honestly so glad he decided to wear his mesh shirt tonight. _How much can you press?_

 _I don’t know, how much do you weigh?_ Mr. Beefcake says, and Mac is starting to regret that he won’t remember much about this in the morning. He’s chubbing up despite himself, and he fleetingly wonders if they could find that waitress and convince her to join them.

By the time Mr. Beefcake gets off work, Mac has sobered up a bit and snorted a few uppers. He’s not sure what they are, but Dee promised they would make him feel like his blood was liquid rainbows. She was not lying. Mac has his naked thighs wrapped around Mr. Beefcake’s hips, and he can feel the mesh of his tank top snagging and ripping against the brick wall they’re banging against. It’s rough, but it keeps Mac in the present. It hurts, but it keeps Mac’s mind from wandering back to Tuesday night.

_This isn’t working out, Mac._

Mr. Beefcake’s sausage fingers dig into the flesh of his asscheeks as he slams his hips forward over and over, driving that snake of a cock into Mac’s sloppy, loose asshole at a brutal pace. Mac’s never taken so much dick at once, and it’s a little overwhelming. Mac tilts his hips forward so that his cock bounces against Mr. Beefcake’s washboard abs and just holds on for dear life.

_I feel like I’m not flourishing._

Mac feels like he’s falling and flying at the same time. Mr. Beefcake is laughing into his neck, probably because he’s been calling him Mr. Beefcake out loud since the first crook of his sausage fingers tapped his prostate.

By the time they’ve both come, Mac is a boneless, sweaty heap, barely keeping himself propped upright on the brick wall he’s just been so thoroughly fucked into. Mr. Beefcake, he looks fine. A little breathless, sure, but he’s barely even broken a sweat, and he’s the one who was doing all the goddamn work! He wasn’t lying about being able to bench press Mac. He _definitely_ works out his core. Mac suddenly feels inadequate as Alex-by-the-way helps him straighten out his clothes and jots his number down on Mac’s palm with a ballpoint pen. Neither of them comment on the tear tracks on Mac’s face. They both just chalk it up to the result of a good, rough dicking.

By the time Alex the Beefcake pours Mac into a cab, the numbers on his palm are all smeared from sweat and jizz and tears. He can’t tell if the last two numbers are supposed to be fours or eights, and he can’t even make out the area code anymore.

 _Oh well,_ Mac thinks, rubbing his sweaty palm onto his jeans and further obscuring the numbers. _We probably wouldn’t have worked out, anyway._

**Author's Note:**

> Part 3 of a one word prompt series I write for Tumblr. Send me requests.


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